


they will see us waving from such great heights

by Thorne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, NHL Lockout, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorne/pseuds/Thorne
Summary: His agent arranges half of it, Ovi arranges the other half, and with much less effort than he expected, Nicke winds up in Moscow with a contract with Dynamo Moscow to play in the KHL during the lockout.





	they will see us waving from such great heights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pukeandcry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/gifts).



It happens multiple times a day at first, Ovi never able or willing to remember the time difference between Moscow and DC, and then with a more scheduled pace as Ovi adjusts his strategy into including text messages and emails, keeping the phone calls to the times he's sure Nicke won’t either refuse to pick up or just hang up on him. But eventually Nicke finds himself answering the phone every day to Ovi's ongoing campaign to get him to join him in the KHL, and even looking forward to it. And then things grind even more to a halt than possible with the NHL, and Ovi calls him right after Nicke is getting off his rented ice time at Kettler with Greenie and Chimmer, and somehow in the process of having to dig through his jeans pockets and all the disgusting crevices of his gear bag to scrape together enough loose change to buy a fucking bottle of Gatorade from the public vending machine instead of being able to just take one out of the team room, and in the irritation of still coming up ten cents short and his lowered blood sugar rage, he ends up saying yes.

"Fucking finally," Ovi says into the phone, and then, "Okay, I go tell Dynamo, you get a plane ticket. See you soon."

His agent arranges half of it, Ovi arranges the other half, and with much less effort than he expected, Nicke winds up in Moscow with a contract with Dynamo Moscow to play in the KHL during the lockout. Ovi meets Nicke at the airport; he hugs Nicke to a storm flash of cameras, cheerfully ignores Nicke's attempt to carry his own luggage, shoves both it and Nicke into the car, gets in, and immediately takes at least five years off Nicke's life with his driving through Moscow traffic.

"We're going to die," Nicke says, calmly clutching the door handle. He's driven with Ovi before, back in the United States; Ovi was his ride quite often in the first few years. That was an adventure itself, but this is something wholly different. It's not just Ovi driving on the road (and sometimes the shoulder, and briefly and memorably, the sidewalk); it's like _everyone else on the road_ is Ovi as well.

"It's good, it's fine," Ovi says, and changes three lanes over without warning, accelerating to a chorus of horns. "Hey, turn music up."

At Dynamo, there's another barrage of cameras documenting every step of the tour Ovi gives him around the facility, and he's still blinking light spots away in front of his eyes, which is his only real excuse for how Ovi manages to get him back into the car again for another series of narrow escapes from death that masquerade as a tour around the city and to Ovi's apartment. Nicke is supposed to be staying at the training center, despite offers for a hotel or apartment, but Ovi seems to simply take it for granted that Nicke will come with him for now, and all the time zones Nicke went through to get to Moscow are beginning to catch up with him to the point where he doesn't feel like debating it.

Despite the adrenaline rush brought on by the terror of commuting with Ovi, Nicke collapses into a bed, making noises of vague agreement to Ovi's suggestion that he nap and then they'd see about lunch, and there's a place for dinner he'll love, and after that they can go to some nightclub party and meet five hundred of Ovi's closest friends. He then proceeds to sleep straight through the afternoon and well into the evening, and only wakes up because of his bladder's pressing need to be addressed and the smell of something unbearably delicious coming from the kitchen.

Ovi is staring down into one of several pots on the stovetop, poking it experimentally with a wooden spoon. Nicke takes the few seconds before Ovi realizes he's there to just look at him, away from cameras and crowds and standing quietly in a place that's obviously and wholly his own. He still has the ridiculous ripped jeans on, but he's also in slippers and a different shirt. His hair is much shorter, almost cropped to the skull.

"Did you cook?" Nicke asks.

Ovi shakes his head without looking up, still scowling at the pot. "My mom, she cooked. She says, bad if I poison you after make you come all the way to Russia and join team."

"Oh," Nicke says, and yawns. Ovi finally turns and looks at him, giving up on whatever he seems to expect from the bubbling pot.

"We not gonna go out tonight," he says, almost a question, like he's giving Nicke room to change his mind if he wants to. Nicke doesn't want to. He's had to have his picture taken more times today than he's had in the last five months, and the idea of sitting around some nightclub and drinking while hundreds of people come and go around him and Ovi seems unappealing at best.

"I have to do the physical tomorrow," he says, and runs a hand through his hair. "Have to be in good shape. Or they'll kick me out."

"They won't," Ovi says with supreme confidence. And why not, since he's seen how in his element Ovi is here. Ovi got him everything he asked for in the contract in under forty-eight hours, the money and release clause, and whatever else Ovi thought he needed and might not have asked for already. "You wanna eat?" Ovi asks, gesturing with the spoon.

"I could eat," Nicke says. Thinking of everything Ovi's done so far for him gives him a slight prick of guilt. "We can go out," he adds. "If you want."

"No," Ovi says. "You don't eat my mom's food? She yell at me. Then she yell at you." Ovi brandishes the spoon; sauce splatters on the stove. "You don't want _that_."

So they eat, and it’s good, enough so that they don't talk much while doing it. Nicke wakes the rest of the way up. It was a mistake napping so long; he's going to have to work to get back on schedule. Ovi dumps the dishes in the sink with apparently no intention of doing anything about them right now, and bodily blocking Nicke from getting to them. Instead, he presents Nicke with a set of towels and shows him how the shower's wonky faucets work; how they have to be twisted just so.

"Soon we go to the banya, real Russian banya," he promises Nicke. "I show you. Much better than Swedish sauna."

"Hmm," Nicke says. The immediate present lure of hot water is too much for him to waste time defending Sweden's honor. Ovi's lingering just in the doorway of the bathroom, and maybe he expects to be invited into Nicke's shower. In most times, Nicke would, but he selfishly wants it to all to himself for the moment. Still, he has to get his own back somehow, and now that he's fed and awake and capable—

Ovi, accepting Nicke's pause as dismissal, steps back all the way, turning as he says, "I'm gonna go—" so Nicke reaches out and takes his sleeve.

"Wait on the bed," Nicke tells him, and he sees Ovi's normal expression do its usual .8 seconds whiplash conversion from _Completely Intent And Focused On Videogame/Food/Text Message From Semin/Goal Scoring_ to _SEX SEX SEX!!!_ and he quickly steps back right out of range before Ovi can charm his way into Nicke's shower after all. He doesn't want to be sidetracked or have this over too soon.

He stares Ovi straight in the eye. "Wait on the bed," he says again. "And don’t touch. Yet."

He shuts the door, not waiting to see if Ovi does it.

He undresses and gets under the water, scrubbing himself all over and washing his hair with all of Ovi's products instead of his own, since he doesn't want to ruin the effect by going back into the room for them. The water is hot, almost painfully so, but he doesn't adjust it. When he gets out of the shower, though, he wrinkles his nose at how red he looks in the steam-clouded mirror.

Nicke takes his time drying off and trying to put his hair in some state that won’t leave it unfortunately fluffed. He snoops unabashedly through all of the drawers and cabinets, taking note of what's there. And when he's ready, he hangs the towel up and walked naked into the bedroom. Two of the three lamps are off; one shines next to the bed, though.

Ovi's sitting on the bed naked, which Nicke expected, and with his hands not only not touching himself, but curled up over his head and loosely clutching the headboard, which is a nice touch Nicke hadn't expected. It shows off the muscles of his arms to good effect; it's worth looking at for a while, so Nicke does. Ovi must not have gotten on the bed right away; he would have had to have taken his clothes off and turn the lights down. He put on a show. Nicke can see the evidence of effort; he likes that Ovi cares enough to do that.

"Don’t move yet," Nicke says, finally. He walks over to where his suitcase is on the floor and rummages until he finds what he needs. He goes back to the bed and stands by its side, looking once again. Ovi's hands are noticeably paler, so he's been holding them up for a while, and not just waiting until just before the door opened.

Nicke gets on the bed, straddles Ovi's lap without hurrying, and wraps his hands around Ovi's wrists before leaning in. He holds them there to see if he likes the feeling, and he does, but it's a more awkward position than he'd like for what he wants to do, so he guides Ovi's hands down from the headboard and presses them against the mattress.

"Keep them there," he says, and then he cups Ovi's face in his own hands and kisses him, not hard but thoroughly. He can feel water dripping down the back of his neck from his hair, and probably onto the sheets. He closes his eyes and lets his hands move up and over Ovi's skull, feeling the bristle of his hair and the shape of his head while still kissing him, lightly brushing his lips to move from his mouth to one cheek, and then over his eye, and then back down the slope of his nose to the corner of his mouth again. He opens his eyes.

Ovi is rumbling beneath him, a purr of eagerness. He has his eyes closed. Nicke waits until he opens them, then sits back firmly. "Hi," he says.

Ovi raises his eyebrows at him. "Hi," he says back. "You here."

"I'm here," Nicke agrees.

"Shower's good?" Ovi asks, arching beneath him a little.

"It's good. I like your apartment," Nicke says, placing a kiss with grave consideration into the hollow of Ovi's throat. His skin feels so hot beneath Nicke's mouth that he feels the need to test it elsewhere, and he drifts downward, testing the line of each collarbone, his sternum, the spaces right above and below his left nipple, and then above his navel. It’s all warm. Ovi gives off heat like a furnace; Nicke imagines if he'd let Ovi into the shower with him after all, pictures the water steaming off him.

"Yeah?" Ovi says. He's still keeping his hands where Nicke put them for now, but Nicke can see his hands flexing, sinking his fingers deep into the sheets.

"It's a nice place," Nicke says. It has pictures of Ovi everywhere, sticks and trophies and framed memorabilia. Ovi looks down on him from corners and walls in all ages and jerseys, usually grinning, always with hair just a shade less than terrible. Nicke's glad, however, that it seems roughly chronologically arranged so that the early years start in the front hall, and there's less of it inside the bedroom; he doesn't think he could be doing this as easily if there was any kind of picture of Ovi at the age of twelve staring down at his naked ass on the bed.

"I like seeing you in it," he adds, and Ovi makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. "Now lie down."

He hitches himself up to lift his weight enough so Ovi can, and when Ovi is flat on his back on the bed, Nicke pushes himself further down his body so that he can settle between Ovi's legs, which open to make space for him. Part of him wants to just climb back up, drape himself all over Ovi so that they touch all over. But he accepts the space Ovi's created for him on the bed, the same way Ovi's created for him in this apartment, on the team, in Moscow, and he contemplates his next move, watching the way Ovi's cock is already hard and curving up to his belly and how he's shifting his hips in hope of what Nicke will do.

Nicke arranges Ovi to his liking the same way he'd do if directing Ovi where to stand on the ice before a powerplay faceoff, getting Ovi into his own lap now, pushing his legs to where he wants them around his waist. There's a bruise on Ovi's hip, mostly green and yellow by now, some leftover from a hit in a hockey game that Nicke wasn't involved in. Not yet, anyway. He touches it but doesn’t press into it; he sucks a similar mark on the other hip so they'll match, and then he bites gently at the softer skin down on his thigh.

"Glad you here," Ovi says. His breath is coming a little more quickly, but nowhere near panting yet.

"Me too," Nicke says. "It was weird, back in DC. Without you there."

He uses his elbow and arm to keep one of Ovi's legs around his waist, leans forward and licks the head of Ovi's cock; when Ovi automatically jerks his hips up, he uses his hold on Ovi's leg to keep him down. He swipes his tongue across it again, holds the entire head in his mouth for a few seconds, tasting the saltiness of his pre-come, and then he releases his cock again.

"You're ready for me already," he says, and bends and hoists both Ovi's legs over to his shoulders so he can lick a stripe up the underside of his shaft, mouth at his balls. "You'd just let me in."

Ovi grunts with the effort to keep his legs in place, but his voice is still steady. "Nicke, I always let you."

Ovi doesn't break. He allows Nicke to take him to pieces at times, with an unwavering faith that Nicke will restore him every time. That faith makes _Nicke_ break sometimes, the knowledge of what Ovi would let him do, how far Ovi would let him go.

The first time they'd had sex without a condom, it was on the road during Nicke's first year in DC, the stretch of time when Semin's ankle was injured, and they'd stuck Nicke and Ovi together as roommates to see if they could build chemistry off the ice as well. It was raining, and they were bored; sex had seemed the best option but neither of them wanted to leave the room to buy or borrow condoms. Nicke was too horrified at the idea of having to use English to ask any of his teammates, or having to ask Nylander at all. Ovi, who normally would have had no problem at all asking anyone in any language for a condom, simply hadn't wanted to put on pants to leave the room. So, they'd done without one.

It was wet and messy and Nicke had the horribly insistent feeling that somewhere, somehow, George McPhee could sense they were doing something that fell in the top five of the list of things they'd been given and told not to do, and that he was probably extremely pissed off about it. But it had felt so different and amazing at the same time, and even though they'd had to worry about even larger wet patches on the bed, he'd been unable to stop touching Ovi afterwards. He'd used just his forefinger, dipping down and swirling it in the slick mess, probing with one finger, then two. Then his thumb and his finger, still rubbing, still teasing, pushing back the white drips of come back into the red, puffy skin of his hole. Ovi had let him, still breathing hard and lying there flat on his stomach with his head turned to one side and resting on his folded arms, only one bright blue eye visible but watching Nicke back.

It should have been gross but Nicke couldn't stop. He'd draped himself over Ovi's back and kept dragging his fingers around and around, in and out, one and then two and then three. He'd hesitated for a while, but finally he'd tried four, curled just enough until Ovi made a noise between his teeth, and shifted invitingly, and then they'd ended up doing without a condom for a second time. It was even messier and he'd loved it, loved how much easier it was to slide in this time and watching the muscles of Ovi's back shift and flex under his hands. They'd made such a mess of the sheets in the one bed that they both simply vacated premises to the other bed and slept there. If they hadn't had a game the next day, Nicke might've just kept on, tried to see if he could have gotten beyond four fingers.

"You let me in," Nicke goes on, and now he straightens up, letting Ovi's legs down and his ass rest on Nicke's lap while he's reaching for the lube he'd dropped on the bed. "You want me in."

Nicke is aware of how his fantasies can take a turn towards the mildly sadistic at times, putting his control issues out on display. He thinks of jerking Ovi off under the table on the team charter plane, not after a game when everyone's half asleep or thumbing through video, but a day flight when they're all awake and ready to go. He thinks of fucking Ovi with toys, foot long dildoes with bumps and knobs, maybe in bright, unrealistic red, not saying anything when Ovi begs for Nicke's cock instead but continuing to fuck him hard, past Ovi coming. He thinks of watching Ovi take it from other guys first, a shifting lineup in his head of teammates and acquaintances, (lately it's been Greenie, Brooks, Knubs, the red-headed barista at the Starbucks who makes shitty coffee but has a tongue piercing and the most beautiful hands Nicke's ever seen, and Henrik Lunqvist), then being the last one  to go, with Ovi drenched and limp and too fucked out to do anything but breathe and beg, slipping into him and feeling how sloppy and hot and wet he is inside.

Nicke's never been messy, tending towards efficiency, neatness. Ovi's never been anything _but_ chaos and energy without end.

The muscles in Ovi's abdomen tighten as he lifts himself up just enough to stare threateningly at Nicke with an expression that says, _are you going to get the fuck on with it or what?_

"We can do this tomorrow morning," Nicke says, slicking himself up with one hand. "Right before we go back to Dynamo. Can you skate with it all wet coming out of you? In your ass and going down your leg."

"Skate better than you," Ovi says, teeth worrying at his lower lip, "Fuck, you still in just training shape. I'm playing."

His sigh is long and low and controlled as Nicke guides himself into Ovi with a slow, unrelenting push. No prep, no fingers, just the slick squelch of lube and the slow deliberation of Nicke's push and Ovi's equally deliberate relaxation to draw him in.

Nicke's knowledge of himself and his paranoia over being immediately handed Ovi's trust and willingness to let Nicke do damn near anything meant that he'd gone the opposite way of his thoughts at first. He'd tried to offer as often as he took, to prep for much longer than Ovi deemed necessary, to refuse to do anything at all on days when the games were too close together, or at all when bruises solely from checks and hits were purpling their bodies. Ovi shook off Nicke's efforts the same way he shook off the hits that left those marks, impatiently urged him to go harder, push more, and they would fight over it, then end up fucking after all, layering further marks on top of what was there, shoving at each other and refusing to be the first to give in and come.

"Training shape," Nicke echoes, and starts fucking him in earnest: short, hard, regular strokes that he knows he can do for as long as he needs to. He has the positional leverage and doesn't need any extra effort to just drill down into him. He doesn't hold Ovi's legs up anymore, trusting Ovi's ability to keep them wrapped around his waist while he puts his hands down on Ovi''s hands in the sheets and holds them there.

"Fuck, okay," Ovi gasps, as his cock jostles up and sways against his belly with no way to touch it. "Fuck, baby, give it to me, I give it you, come on, baby, come on, Nicke."

"You'll give it to me?" Nicke asks, still thrusting, which just makes Ovi tighten his thighs around Nicke—fuck, it feels like he could scissor Nicke in half if he wanted. Ovi's strength is a never-ceasing source of attraction to Nicke, not just the way he's effortlessly comfortable in his body and abilities, but that he's so willing to let Nicke control and direct it. "What will you give me?"

"Anything you want, baby," Ovi says shamelessly, wantonly, and a curl of pleasure entirely independent of everything happening between both his and Ovi's legs rises up in Nicke yet again, the baffled happiness of how this just works between them, their ability to give each other what they want. He keeps waiting for them to not work, for their differences to push away rather than fit together, but somehow they just don't. "Hard, c'mon, you show me, show me how you do it. Missed you, miss you so much."

Nicke twines his fingers with Ovi's in the sheets; Ovi digs his ankles into Nicke's back, one heel banging away and probably beating a bruise in already. He's going to have to shower all over again.

And it was good, it was working, but it wasn't exactly what Nicke wanted and besides, if he's here to play alongside Ovi, he's going to do his best to make them the top of the KHL, show the fucking NHL what they're missing right now, so he needs to think of what's the best for both of them. He pulls out—Ovi actually fucking _growls_ at him and tightens his legs enough so that Nicke has to slap at his thigh to be released, saying, "C'mon, turn over, it's better this way."

They roll over in a tangled welter of damp sheets and Nicke very narrowly misses putting his knee down on the lube and making a worse mess. He pulls Ovi up onto his knees, leans over that massive broad stretch of his back, puts a hand between his shoulder blades, and arrows his way back in. Now the angle's perfect; he's hitting the right spot each time, obvious from how he has to bear down with almost all his weight to keep Ovi from bucking him right off again as he shoves his ass back to meet each of Nicke's thrusts.

The sight of Ovi's damn back tattoos give him that same flash of amused affection he feels every time, how they're so fucking _Ovi_ , and he brushes one hand across them, feeling the sweat collect against his palm. Ovi matches his thrusts, pushing back and then yielding again, and they have the rhythm together; fucking Ovi feels like he's riding along the edge of a force of nature, a power that could swell beyond him at any moment.

"Nicke, Nicke, Nicke," Ovi's chanting, "Nicke, baby, want you, more, c'mon."

Nicke gropes for Ovi's cock with his right hand and wraps his left arm around Ovi's chest, feeling over his ribs until he can lay it open over Ovi's heart, the thundering beat of it flush against his palm. He can feel his own balls tightening, knows it's about to happen for him, much sooner than he wants but all that he can stand. He doesn’t even jerk Ovi, just tightens his fingers into a channel Ovi pushes against, and Nicke says roughly in Swedish because he doesn’t have the control to do it in English, "Come for me, now, right now."

Ovi curses in Russian and bangs his hips back so hard that it nearly unseats Nicke, then comes wet and hot over Nicke's hand. This is his, all his, and in his heart of hearts Nicke is glad Brynas had turned him down, given him the chance to follow Ovi into a strange land yet again, to play and live beside him in a space Ovi's made for him and him alone. There's always a space for him with Ovi, a place reserved for Nicke that fits him exactly. When Ovi collapses down to the sheets, Nicke lets himself drape all the way over Ovi like he'd wanted to before, blanketing him for a minute before rolling off. He swipes at the lube so it falls off the bed, realizes he's lying in the mess of where Ovi came, and can't bring himself to care.

Ovi's ragged breathing is coming back under control already; he really is in better game shape than Nicke, not that Nicke plans to tell him that. He rolls to his side and makes grabby-hands at Nicke until Nicke rolls over and lets Ovi spoon him the way he wants. Ovi cuddles like an octopus that's just come home from war, arms and legs clamping around like he can't bear to let go. 

"I'm happy you're here, Backy," Ovi says simply, nose nudging behind Nicke's ear. His breath tickles Nicke's neck.

"I'm happy here too," Nicke says, because it's true. He doesn't know how long they'll have here, but he knows he can be happy here, that he _is_ happy here. Because Ovi is here, and therefore it's where Nicke wants to be.

Ovi grumbles when Nicke makes him let go long enough to set an alarm but subsides when Nicke doesn’t make them go shower again. He's pliant when Nicke returns to his arms, and falls asleep within minutes. Nicke stays awake longer, aware of the mess on and around him, but not willing to disturb their peace to clean himself up. He works his hand between them and drags two fingers down Ovi's thigh, feeling the tacky remains of come behind his balls and down his legs. He listens to the small settling noises within the apartment, and the muted ones from the streets outside. It's an unfamiliar place, but he'll get used to it.

He puts his fingers in his mouth and tastes; when he's done, he lets them rest on Ovi's chest above his heart the same way he'd let them rest between a book's pages to hold his place; he supposes the concept is the same here, but he knows his place is already held for him, and always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey pukeandcry, tried to work with your request about Ovi and Nicky having crazy honeymoon sex during the lockout. Sorry if I didn't hit on target, but I hope you enjoy it!


End file.
